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They mourn for their king.
He mourns for what he's lost.
She mourns for what she does not know.
He mourns for his reign.
He mourns for himself.
She mourns for a story coming to its end.
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The carriage wheels through the villages, basking in the moonlight. People crowd the streets and watch it roll by. No one says a word.
Their king was murdered, and his heir is to take the throne. How are they supposed to feel?
Those who didn't know King Mizuki grieve, but those who saw past his mask know better. When a tyrant falls, the kingdom doesn't weep. They will not sing a requiem for the fallen, not this year. But the oblivious?
They mourn for their king.
The casket in the back of the carriage is undisrupted, and the king lays inside, his body unmoving. He's dead. Murdered in what some would call cold blood.
If the king could speak, he wouldn't know what to say. If he could move, he wouldn't move at all. If he knew how his kingdom felt about him, he wouldn't hesitate to end it himself. He wore more than one mask, and his true self was lost beneath the acting.
All of the pretending.
The screams. The pain he caused.
But alas, if he could go back, he wouldn't change a thing. He lost himself in the power, and if he had lived, he would have continued the same way.
As the funeral goes on outside, the heir and soon to be king sits in his palace. It's his now.
How is he supposed to feel?
He will not cry. Why should he fall apart for a father he never really knew? Why should he pretend to be a mess, for nothing more than his father's memory?
He could give in. But why should he?
He does not mourn for his father.
He mourns for what he's lost.
His world is already shrouded in darkness. He's grieved enough over something he lost at the castle that day. The palace wasn't the only thing that burned.
And a kingdom away, a princess sits in her room, curled up in the arms of her fiancé. But she does not weep. She does not grieve. She feels empty, but not because her father is dead.
Too many things are piled on her shoulders. Too many worries plague her heart, so she will not waste a tear on the manipulative father she lost.
Instead, she mourns for her palace. She mourns for what her brother lost, and what her best friend soon will. She mourns over her wedding, which she never got to have that day.
She mourns for what she does not know.
In that same building, a smaller replica of the burned palace, the Flame King holds his head in his hands. He will step down from the throne soon, and his son will be crowned king.
He mourns for his reign.
And nearby, a guard lays in the medical wing, finally awake from a two day slumber. He cries softly as the events from days before crawl back into his memory, and pain racks his body. His arm is destroyed.
He mourns for himself.
And still, even only three days after the Todoroki palace burned, a diary sits in the ashes, untouched. How long will her story go unheard?
And worlds away, perhaps galaxies, people sit and wait for the conclusion to these stories. And perhaps close by, a teenager sits on her bed, writing away and deciding the fates of these characters. But they are much more than that to her.
No, none of the characters sing a requiem for the fallen king, but that small teenager does, because only she knows what his death will bring.
She mourns for a story coming to its end.
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